The Maxim of the British People
by kinneas
Summary: "In true combat, ten seconds of fighting is the adrenaline equivalent of punching a wall as hard and fast as possible for a solid minute."  The immediate aftermath of Dethsources.


**The Maxim of the British People**

In true combat, ten seconds of fighting is the adrenaline equivalent of punching a wall as hard and fast as possible for a solid minute.

Charles has just fought for three.

He stumbles to his feet, struggles for breath, and watches the man who would be manager become a grease stain on the transit line.

FIRST

The sword drops from his hand and clatters to the ground, and Charles fixes the bloody smear with a glare. His lungs burn; adrenaline is still rushing through his system, but he can feel cold wind drying the sweat on his face.

The boys... the boys are out at a bar partying, but they'll likely be back before dawn. He doesn't have much time, but it's sufficient.

His peripheral vision is beginning to return. His hands are still shaking with exertion, but he manages to pull the Dethphone from his breast pocket to dial his assistant - then immediately thinks better of it. The average American's talking speed is 150 words per minute; Charles bets he can triple that right now.

He forces himself to breathe slowly, out through his nose, in through his mouth, steadying his fingers as they tap too fast at the poorly-designed keypad.

_Mlmt 3 near entrance_

He appraises the mess.

_Grade c_

Right.

Without sparing a glance back, Charles toes his sword off the ledge and returns inside. As the night and wind disappear, he's wrapped in a stickiness like summer, and his skin clammy, shirt clinging, hair dripping in his face.

Damn, but the jacket's gotta go; it's covered in blood (not his) and it makes the wet heat all that much more oppressive. It's a shame, but a necessary sacrifice. He quickly shrugs out of it, draping it over his arm blood-side-down.

He's almost to his quarters, finally slowing to normal walking speed and thankfully around the corner from the Klokateers waiting for him, and then the nausea hits. He expected it, of course, but that doesn't quell the very real possibility of vomiting bile and leftover lunch all over the marble.

He has to stop mid-stride, take a breather, mentally neutralize the churning in his stomach.

He'd skipped dinner for precisely this reason, and he doesn't regret it.

Composure regained, confidence and competence firmly back in place, he rounds that corner.

3595 bows. "Sire."

"Give me an update," Charles says.

"The cleanup crew is almost done at #3."

Charles nods. "Find all relevant paperwork and burn it." He pauses, thinks, and hands 3595 his jacket. "This, too."

"What of his belongings- ?"

"Don't touch any of it yet."

"Sire, did he not sign a pain waiver before beginning employme- "

"There are more pressing concerns right now." That's the end of the conversation, and Charles retreats to his room.

SECOND

When the doors are closed and the Klokateers are gone, though his strength is waning, Charles doesn't slump in relief.

He hangs his tie on the doorknob and peels out of his clothes on the way to the bathroom - it's like climbing out of gelatin, _sticky_. The glasses are the last to go, and the off-white tile of the wall blurs as he practically falls into the scalding shower.

The refuge of the white water hum only traps him in with his thoughts; the rush of having survived a literal swordfight to the death has caught up with him. He's seized with a subdued kind of fury, birthed by the knowledge that it was likely Fjortslorn's sloppy technique, predicated on blade against blade and not blade into flesh, that helped save his own skin.

Yet still, it's _Charles_ standing in the shower, with shampoo in his hair and blood everywhere but his head.

His back is against the wall, one hand balanced on the foggy glass door, the other fumbling with his hair, brushing it back and letting it rinse. Here it is, the part of post-adrenal stress come-down that he likes least, heat flaring at the base of his spine and stuck perpetually at half-mast. Finally he relents, and his hand slides from his hair, down his chest, and warmth floods his body.

Charles doesn't really conjure any images in his head; the friction and pressure and warm water and knowledge that his opponent is dead and his position is secure are more than enough to do the trick.

His legs are shaky, and he has to shift, body cradling the wall - he can't stop himself from gasping at the sensation of the comparably cold marble on his dick. This is an effort in efficiency, so already he's breathing hard through his nose, eyes determinedly open, but now the heat is traveling up his back, through his skull, and he's gnawing the inside of his lip, increasing the pressure of every stroke, biting back little gasps.

He thrusts his hips a bit, realizes he's thrusting his hips, and stops. He unclenches his other hand, balled tightly at his side, and cups himself and works harder, faster, and he winds so tightly, consumed by the unbearable heat, and then just as fast he's unwound, released, exposed.

It's enough to get the job done.

Charles is breathless for the second time tonight, clinging to the wall for support, but he forces himself to straighten, pulls himself back together, tries to resume his shower routine.

The contentedness of post-climax is fading fast, and thoughts and preparation (there's so much to _do_) rush his mind uninvited; the next few hours will be very important, if not wholly unfamiliar, and he needs to pace himself. This is not a night for multitasking, and doing dirty business doesn't actually require being dirty. He exhales slowly air and episteme, and washes the conditioner from his hair.

Five minutes later Charles is out of the shower, dried off and glasses restored. He feels human again.

He leaves his room in just a robe and pants; it's late, and with the type of work to be done, there's no need for a suit. The sensory is over, faded to a dull, background ache, and the cognitive must continue.

THIRD

His assistant is waiting patiently outside his door with a group, anticipating orders.

"We're gonna have to spin this very specifically," Charles says, bringing up a picture on his phone to show him. 3595 nods, understanding, and leads a couple of Klokateers off to the guest quarters. He turns to a lesser assistant. "Get me Jacey from AP on the phone."

Charles heads for his own office.

This isn't the first night he's been at his desk in a robe so late at night, fixing unfortunate messes. He pulls his laptop from the desk drawer, where dangerous and clumsy hands can't reach it, and the blue glow of the boot-up screen illuminates his office. The United States Department of Justice is on his quick contact list, and after five quick emails about third tier and Adam Walsh, he packs it back up.

The office phone intercom is beeping now, and before he can get a word out, the woman on the other line is grumbling at him through the earpiece.

"No, I know, I apologize," he says, "but there's been an, ah, incident. ..." Charles cracks a mirthless smirk. "Good guess. My men will send you a report, just base it off that."

"... Uh huh. ... ... That's fine, we'll have the photos to you in, ah, half an hour. Is- ?" He waits for her to finish. "No, just as long as it breaks before three, that'll get the ball rolling. ... … Well, the internet is one thing, but print is- "

He checks the messages on his Dethphone while she talks; the evidence is on the laptop, and they're almost through with the room. He texts back, _Call Thad at C&N, at least a crawl by dawn._

"That's ... yeah, that's - that's fine, just make it happen, thanks." The call ends abruptly; he'll take her out to dinner again some time to make it up. He gives another order, and fifteen minutes later Line 2 blinks red.

"Hi, Larry, it's Charles," he says, "Ah, I know it's late ... has the _Times_ run to press yet?" It has. "... Well, I'm gonna need you to run an, ah, addendum." He ignores the protests. "... ... Well, it's - no, it's not your decision, either. I don't need to remind- ... ... No, we can go beyond the, ah, standard rate."

"... Good, good, glad to hear it. ... Yeah, it should break on AP soon." He checks his watch; the minutes are ticking away. "We can send you- ... Good, okay. Okay, I'll- ... I'll make sure. Bye." He hangs up, breathes calmly.

A final check of his phone and the reports are in, everything is going smoothly; there is nothing else he can do until business hours begin. Charles turns off the light in his office.

Tomorrow, he'll wake up early, forego his morning run, make a few more calls, monitor the ticker, and deliver some newspapers.

Tonight, he will dream.

* * *

so this is a birthday gift to the fabulous, wonderful, dear friend Xelias, all the rockin' stuff she wants in a fic, and hopefully not too shitty to boot! beta thanks to Elendraug; she helped guide this from a steaming pile of crap into something presentable. special note: i lost like half of this fic when I dropped my phone in the toilet, so that's bonerrific

eta 6.06.11 - touched up some crappy stuff


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